


Private Rituals

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Military Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 10:18:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8529256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: Sherlock has a very specific masturbation ritual, but what would John think of it?





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly unbetaed and unedited, but I wrote this for stress relief, and I figured many of us could use some.

It had been thirty minutes since John left for work. His shift started ten minutes ago. If he was going to return to the flat, he would have done it by now. He might have come back fifteen, twenty minutes ago if he’d forgotten something important--his phone, for example. But, by this point, he was at work to stay. 

Time was, Sherlock would have waited a bit longer, perhaps half an hour to forty-five minutes into John’s shift, but the months of cohabitation had solidified John’s habits in Sherlock’s mind. Returning to the flat before his shift was over was rare enough on its own, but if he needed to return home for something, he’d never arrived past the intended start time of his shift. And, if he did return early for a different reason--i.e. illness--that never happened until at least two hours had passed into the shift.

All this meant that Sherlock had at bare minimum an hour and fifty minutes to himself. It was more than enough time to accomplish his goal, and while it might have been prudent to wait a few more minutes to start, Sherlock was not known for his patience.

He waited until the eleven-minute mark, just to be safe, but the moment the number flipped, he was out of his chair, dropping his dressing gown to the floor. Next came the t-shirt, landing at the end of the kitchen table, and finally he dropped trou, leaving his pyjama bottoms in a pool outside his bedroom door. He’d have plenty of time to clean them up later; best get to the main attraction.

Heart rate already speeding, Sherlock rushed to his bedside table. He dropped the lube and plug on the duvet before retrieving the item most integral to this particular ritual.

He ran the ball chain between his fingers, arousal trickling down his spine. Rubbing the discs between his forefinger and thumb, he allowed himself the fantasy of the tags hanging around John’s neck, sliding against the skin between his nipples. It was one of Sherlock’s favorite fantasies, John laid out beneath him, dog tags settled against his chest. He’d only seen the briefest glimpses of John’s chest--through the gap in a dressing gown, beneath the hem of a t-shirt as John lifted it to wipe a sweaty brow, the one time Sherlock had dared interrupt John in the shower--but it was enough to extrapolate a decent facsimile. 

The only true mystery was the nipples. Sherlock had seen only a flash of them that time in the shower, just a blur of color before the curtain was ripped shut and John’s voice was forcing him out the door. It hadn’t seemed such a tragedy at the time--that particular body part wasn’t the true goal of the expedition--but every gap in his knowledge of John’s body had come to feel like a gaping maw. He had only a vague idea of the diameter of the areolae, and his attempts at chilling the flat had yielded no results on the effects of the pilomotor reflex. It had only encouraged John to put on one of his thick jumpers.

Still, though he had no idea what John’s nipples would feel like under his tongue, nor what reaction it might yield, he kept imagining it again and again. He trailed the tags up his cheek, picturing his face pressed to John’s chest, his tongue laving erect tissue, John’s back arching, his fingers gripped in Sherlock’s hair (thanks to a near-miss with an unexpectedly volatile chemical reaction, he knew exactly what that felt like).

He was fully hard now, the cool metal against his skin sending shivers down his spine. Time for the main event.

He climbed onto the bed, tilting his hips as he imagined John’s eyes on his arse, on his cock and balls hanging beneath. He could practically hear the hitch of breath, the arousal-roughened growl of Sherlock's name. 

Imagining shorter, rougher fingers, Sherlock gripped his hip and shoved, flipping himself onto his back. Here he could picture John crawling over him, the dog tags hanging from his neck clinking as they collided with Sherlock's thighs, hips, stomach. He never let them touch his cock at this point, preferring to save it for the end, but the temptation was so great that it left him shaking.

“John,” he breathed, dropping the tags onto the center of his chest. He licked two fingers and slid them over his pulse point in imitation of lips, arching his back into the imaginary touch of the man above him. 

Impatience reaching fever pitch, Sherlock grabbed the plug and slicked it with lube. It was a pale imitation of John, clearly significantly smaller along with its other insufficiencies, but John’s cock had proven even more elusive than his nipples. He’d caught sight of it during that fateful shower trip, but one flaccid peek wasn't enough to go on. Still, assuming minimal growth, the plug was still too small. However, it did have the advantage in one respect; Sherlock didn't have to work his way up to it.

He liked to think that John would take his time, work Sherlock open, massage his prostate until he begged for mercy, but Sherlock didn't have the patience or the flexibility to imitate that part of their fictional encounter. He preferred to go straight for penetration, allow the small discomfort of the toy pushing past his sphincter to mimic the way John’s cock would feel after ample foreplay.

Sherlock panted John’s name through the stretch until the widest part was past his entrance and it seated itself. Here he liked to imagine John’s lower abdomen pressed to his bollocks. He imagined the tip of his cock grazing John’s navel, leaving a wet trail. John would talk him through it, tell him how good he felt. He would play Sherlock's body the way Sherlock would play the violin.

Sherlock pushed at the bottom of the toy, angling it until it hit his prostate, making his hips buck as he groaned out, “John.”

“Sherlock, are you all--”

Sherlock froze, eyelids flapping rapid fire at the ceiling. That was not the John in his head. That was the real John, and the voice was close. Judging by the acoustics, the last snippet of a word had been spoken just inside Sherlock's bedroom door.

Sherlock’s body curled in on itself, his hands flying to cover his groin and his feet pulling tight to his body in a vain attempt to cover the base of the plug. He didn’t dare look directly at John, but he did let his gaze wander to the wall opposite his door. John’s silhouette loomed large, still as a statue, though Sherlock could hear the heavy breathing that must have been heaving John’s chest.

“I forgot my-- I thought you might be--” John cleared his throat. “You said my name.”

“Yes.” No use in denying it, no matter how much his body flamed at the humiliation, and God help him, blood still flooded the part he least wanted it at the moment. If anything, his cock was harder than it was the moment before John spoke, John’s palpable gaze only serving to spur it on. He was sure John knew. After all the time hiding it, John not only knew that Sherlock wanted him; he knew that the humiliation of being found out was turning him on. He wished he could disappear as much as he wanted John to survey every shameful inch of him. He wanted to be made to show John the plug and his throbbing cock, and he wanted to be punished for it.

Just the thrill of this discovery about himself was enough to make him shiver, the shiver enough to humiliate him even further. God, he wished John would just do something already.

Finally, Sherlock heard the floorboards creak beneath John, his shadow turning towards Sherlock. He watched John move to the bed in his peripheral vision until John’s nearness was too much, and he had to close his eyes. Even so, he could feel John’s presence like a heavy blanket, his gaze like static electricity.

After a long silent moment, Sherlock felt John’s fingers on his sternum, wrapping around the tags before lifting them off Sherlock’s skin. And damn his transport, Sherlock could feel his nipples hardening, the shameful arousal making him shake.

And damn John, he still said nothing.

Sherlock had never experienced silence like this before. Sure, he’d been silent plenty--in his mind palace, in an interrogation--but he was always in control of the silence. Whether there had been silence or noise had always been up to him, but in that moment, John’s silence was so heavy that Sherlock had no hope of breaking through. He barely dared breathe.

Finally, Sherlock heard the clink and shuffle of the tags shifting as John let out a long breath through his nose. 

“These are mine.” John’s voice was quiet, rough, like sandpaper on sensitive skin, and it made Sherlock’s answer sound more like a plaintive plea than the reply to the implied question.

“Yes.”

“You’ve been in my room.”

He heard the thread of anger in the words, but even if John had been perfectly in control of his tone of voice, Sherlock would still know what this particular revelation meant. Despite tolerating Sherlock’s continual use of his laptop, John valued his small bit of privacy, and Sherlock’s invasion was tantamount to treason. Even behind closed eyes, Sherlock could see the clenched fists, the tilted head, the rictus grin.

The dread and anticipation were delicious and frightening, and Sherlock found it hard to reply.

“You must have been thorough to find these.” The tags tapped against Sherlock’s forearm.

Sherlock swallowed, his fingers spasming at the shock of the cool contact.

“Answer me.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, his heart racing like a greyhound. While the authoritative anger in John’s voice was a quality he’d long found unbearably sexy--and tenfold in the moment--it also made him fear that John was about to storm out for God knows how long.

“Answer me, private.”

The sudden nearness of John’s voice and his hot breath on his ear made Sherlock start, the “yes” leaping from his mouth before he’d even realized his mouth was open.

John’s hand landed on Sherlock’s shoulder, slowly gliding down his arm. “Did you like what you found there?”

“Mostly.”

“Mostly?” John tugged at Sherlock’s forearm until Sherlock let him pull it away, laying Sherlock’s hand on the pillow by his head. “Was there something you didn’t like?”

John’s hand swept across Sherlock’s lower abdomen until he could grab the other arm, and while he let John repeat his previous action, the shame at being exposed made him hide his face against his shoulder despite his closed eyes shielding him from the full impact of John’s gaze.

John let out a long, shaky breath. “God, look at you. You can’t show your face, but you’re hard as a flagstaff.”

At that, there was a tentative touch to Sherlock’s inner thigh that had him jumping out of his skin, his back arching and legs spreading as he gasped like a drowning man. The fear that the plug was revealed pulsed through him like an electrical shock, but he wanted John to see it now. He wanted John to comment on it, shame him, punish him.

John’s hand flattened against Sherlock’s thigh, pressing it out. “You wanted me to catch you, didn’t you?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and shook his head violently. He’d had no intention of letting John see this, but now that he was here? God, John could flay him, and he’d delight in it.

John chuckled, and it sounded dangerous. “Liar.”

“No, I--” Sherlock’s intended statement cut off with a surprised cry before even that cut off with the desperate rush of air in and out of Sherlock’s lungs. John’s finger had dipped behind Sherlock’s testicles to tease at the edge of the toy.

Sherlock trembled.

“God, I wish I didn’t have to go to work,” John lamented.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. “What?”

John slipped the chain over his head, tucking the tags into his shirt. “I have to go.”

“Don’t.” God, it sounded like a whine. A desperate one. A pathetic one. Like a hungry puppy. And it just made him want more.

“One of us has to be a responsible adult.”

“Boring.”

John chuckled, and Sherlock wriggled his hips, desperate to bring John’s attention back to where it had been just moments ago.

“Consider this time to think about why you shouldn’t go through my private belongings and steal them.” John’s tongue swept across his bottom lip as his gaze swept over Sherlock’s body. “And think about what I’m going to do to you when I get home.”

A shiver ran down Sherlock's spine, making his cock leap and drop a bead of precome on his abdomen. Both he and John gasped as it touched his skin, and John licked his lips again, forefinger reaching out to swirl through the liquid. His trousers were distended, his eyes half-lidded, his breath shaky and uneven. He was just as wrecked as Sherlock was, and Sherlock wasn't about to let that go to waste. If he were to leave, he’d have time to calm his body, to think through consequences and rationalize reactions. He’d have time to have second thoughts, and Sherlock couldn't tolerate the notion. Not when he’d gotten so close.

He pressed John’s hand down his stomach until John could feel every inch of how hard he was. “Stay.”

“Oh fuck.” John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock, tugging it with a brutal intensity that made Sherlock’s toes curl, made him levitate. It was exquisite, perfect. Just a few more strokes, and he’d--

“I have to go.”

Sherlock growled, whined, groaned, grabbing his hair in his fists as his cock futilely sought stimulation. And John, damn him, was smiling. He was getting off on Sherlock's frustration.

And suddenly, Sherlock wasn't so frustrated. His arousal still burned bright and sharp; he still desperately wanted to come, but he would wait if John wanted him to. If it made John happy, if it turned John on, Sherlock would stay in a perpetual state of desperate arousal for weeks. He’d wallow in it.

“Very well.” Sherlock strove to sound nonchalant, but he knew it only served to highlight the odd mix of titillation and anticipation and disappointment that he felt. And how much he wanted John to see all of it.

“Don't come while I’m gone.”

Sherlock whined, but even without the request--no, command--he would have waited. He wanted to keep this feeling. It was so new and interesting and just plain sexy. He’d never felt so completely and irrevocably John’s.

John’s own breathing made it unerringly clear that none of what Sherlock felt was one sided. Skimming his palm over Sherlock's testicles, making Sherlock jump, John tapped at the base of the plug. “Keep this in. I want you ready for me when I get home.”

“Oh God.”

With a smirk, John was out the door.

***

Sherlock made a valiant attempt to distract himself. Once he’d managed to subdue his erection enough to move about (there was little hope that it would go away completely in anything resembling a reasonable amount of time), he’d dressed, made some tea, and attempted to start an experiment.

However, every step or shift on his seat or even deep breath moved the slick toy inside him. It didn't even need to come close to his prostate to send sparks through his body and set his mind reeling through a thousand tiny fantasies. He imagined John’s mouth, fingers, cock, and every other body part possible stroking his most intimate places, invading his mouth, or even staying just out of reach to tease and torture him. He imagined humiliations--being fucked against the window, spanked, restrained, made to beg and crawl for John’s attention. He imagined John losing control, fucking him hard and fast over the kitchen table. He imagined John detached from it all, taking Sherlock apart piece by piece while remaining completely unaffected.

So, by the time the front door to 221 Baker Street opened, Sherlock was a shaking, sweaty mess. The kitchen sink was littered with scorched Erlenmeyer flasks, the table stained with tea and other unspeakable things. He’d made an attempt to clean it, but the few times he’d leaned over the table to wipe something away, his mind would flash with visions of John shoving him down on it.

Sherlock stood frozen in the kitchen as he listened to each discrete creak of the seventeen steps to the flat’s front door. Or, more accurately, mostly frozen. His hands twitched at his sides, and his teeth wore away at his bottom lip.

Finally, John arrived at the landing, removed his jacket, and toed off his shoes before crossing to his chair and collapsing into it with a sigh. After another deep breath, he tossed a plastic sack onto the cushion of Sherlock’s chair.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped. That was not what he was expecting. He had expected John to attack him the moment the front door opened. Had John forgotten? Had he changed his mind and decided non-confrontation was the best way to handle it? To hell with that. If he expected Sherlock to just take it lying down, John could take a flying leap.

But, just as Sherlock was about to storm over, rattle the walls and give Mrs. Hudson a fright, John spoke.

“Come here.”

Sherlock paused with one foot in the air. “Pardon?”

“You heard me.”

Sherlock did as was asked, more tentatively than he would have liked, and stood just outside the cocoon of their chairs.

John, who’d had his chin resting on his fist, let his hands fall to his lap. “Are you still wearing it?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Show me.”

Without thought, Sherlock's hands flew to his belt. He unbuckled it, not bothering to pull it free before he undid his button and zip and let his trousers drop. He kicked off his shoes, sending them clattering into the fireplace, and stepped out of his trousers. But, before Sherlock could get his hands on the waistband of his pants, John was pressing his palm against the fabric holding Sherlock's erection at bay.

Sherlock nearly lost his balance. The touch was like an electric shock, and he had to catch himself on the arm of his chair as his knees tried to crumple beneath him.

John was touching him. He was stroking Sherlock's cock, watching the motion like a starving man might look at cake. If the sheer pleasure of it weren't enough to send Sherlock to space, that look would have done it. He wanted to save it and catalogue it, hopefully among many others like it that would come in the future. He had no category for it before today. The closest had been John’s awe at Sherlock's deductions in the early days, but none of those effulgent looks compared.

John’s tongue slowly traversed the path from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Take off your shirt.”

John didn’t stop rubbing as Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt with trembling fingers. God, why did he have to get dressed? This would have been much faster if he’d been wearing a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. He could have even skipped pants. John could be touching his bare skin instead of black cotton.

Before the shirt had hit the ground at Sherlock’s feet, John said, “Turn around and lean over. Brace yourself on the back of the chair.”

Sherlock did as he was asked without a word. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this silent, besides that morning, but he didn't dare add his voice to the proceedings. He was there to take John in, act on his wishes, and that was all Sherlock wanted. He’d speak if John asked him to, but until then, he’d listen.

Once Sherlock was in position, John shimmied down the back of Sherlock's waistband until his entire arse was revealed, leaving Sherlock feeling more naked than if he were entirely nude. His erection pulled uncomfortably against the strained fabric of his pants, but it was possibly the only thing keeping him from going off like a firecracker. He’d never been more painfully aroused in his life, and he didn't think he’d ever be able to get enough.

“God.” John worked the pants down Sherlock's thighs until they could drop to his ankles. “I can't believe you did it.”

Sherlock shivered. “You told me to.”

“I know.” John kissed one cheek, and then the other, licking and nibbling and downright snogging Sherlock's arse. “You’re so good. That must have been so hard. So good for me.”

Sherlock shivered again. No, it wasn't fair any longer to call it a shiver. He was shaking. His legs felt no longer capable of holding his weight, but he’d make them if it meant this treatment would continue.

“Hand me the bag.”

It took him a moment after passing back the sack for Sherlock to realize that he hadn't bothered to ponder the contents or even ask about them, but by that point, he’d heard the plastic crack of a cap, and the warm slide of the plug followed by cool fingers short circuited any other thoughts that might have tried to form.

John didn't need to prepare Sherlock. Sherlock had been ready for him since before he grabbed the dog tags off Sherlock's chest, but his imagination had not been far off on John’s approach to foreplay. And dear God, fucking a doctor had its benefits. It was the work of mere moments for John to slide two fingers into Sherlock's body and crook them against his prostate. Every previous touch to that gland paled in comparison. His own fingers lacked the surety and strength, the calloused roughness. The toys lacked precision.

After hours of teasing, he was sure he’d come that way, but before he’d started the climb, John was pulling his fingers free. Sherlock's shoulders collapsed, his head drooping. He was sure this wasn't the end. He knew it only signaled better things to come, but the disappointment--the emptiness--was unbearable. Tears prickled at his eyes, bringing with them the first threads of humiliation that were unwelcome that day. 

But John, brilliant John, lovely John, was stroking Sherlock's hip, murmuring, “It’s all right. I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you, sweetheart.”

He guided Sherlock down to sit on his knees, and a few moments later, he lifted Sherlock's hips and guided them back. At the feel of the head of John’s cock, slick and sheathed in latex, sliding down his coccyx, Sherlock lost his breath. And nearly lost his consciousness. He stayed there, lungs and head empty, as John kept him suspended, teasing his entrance, thumbs parting his cheeks as fingers held his hips. His legs shook, though from fatigue or anticipation, he couldn't tell.

“Is this what you imagined? When you pushed that pathetic plastic thing into your body?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered, stuttering on the sibilant as John guided him down. And down. The slow, sliding pressure made him ache, made him throb. It was so overwhelming he thought he might sob, but he could barely manage to even breathe, chest heaving on tiny syllables even as his arse settled on John’s groin, as John guided him back, naked shoulders on clothed chest.

John fingers skated over Sherlock’s torso, tiny tickling touches. “How does it compare?”

Sherlock whined, arching his back until his head could collapse onto John’s shoulder. The constant, throbbing pressure of John’s cock on his prostate was too much. It wasn’t enough. It was lighting his nerves on fire, a thousand tiny fuses branching from deep inside his groin to every inch of his body. He was going to come like a rocket, but not if John refused to move.

John’s fingers hooked into Sherlock’s jaw like a vice, forcing him to turn his head. “Answer me.”

Sherlock gasped. “It doesn’t. It’s a piece of shit. You’re--”

Whatever superlative was about to come out was cut off by John’s insistent tongue, and even if Sherlock had someone managed speech past that, the sudden shove of John’s hips forced all capacity for speech from Sherlock’s head. He yelped into John’s mouth, and John responded in kind, growling into Sherlock’s.

As suddenly as John’s mouth was on Sherlock’s, it was off again, instead latched to Sherlock’s shoulder as John’s hips kicked again and again, his cock driving into Sherlock’s prostate. “Fuck, Sherlock. Seeing you like this. Do you-- God. Do you know what you do to me?”

John kept talking, muttering and whispering filth against Sherlock’s skin, into his ear, but Sherlock comprehended nothing but the sensation of it, the brush of lips, the rush of air, the low growl in his ear raising goosebumps on his scalp, all coalescing in his groin. He was nothing but a body racing towards orgasm, arse slapping against thighs, legs and abdomen tense with anticipation, mouth open, gulping air, follicles tingling.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open on a gasp, desire hitting him like an especially brilliant and surprising deduction. “Pull my hair.”

Sinking his teeth into Sherlock’s shoulder, John gripped a fistful of Sherlock’s curls, holding his head craned against John’s shoulder, and Sherlock left the launchpad. He came harder than he thought possible. He was certain that there was nothing of him left; surely he’d exploded into a cloud of dust, left to slowly settle onto John’s body, be taken into his lungs. That was how existed now, as part of John.

He melted into the body beneath him, brows pulling together as he settled. “You’re not naked.”

John’s breath rushed past Sherlock’s ear. “No.”

Sherlock wriggled against John like he was trying to smooth out a lumpy cot. “Pity.”

“Next time.” John kissed Sherlock’s temple. “Sorry that was so short.”

Sherlock yawned. “It took far too long.”

Sherlock was faintly aware of his body shifting, the twinge of John’s cock slipping from his body, John’s chuckle against his nape. “You’re right.”


End file.
